Page 66 of Problematic Summer Romance

“Yup. I am.” I want more. I want so much more. My fingers travel down the warm muscles of his chest. Meet the waist of his sweats. It’s a simple matter of sliding my palm inside and—

“No.” He traps my wrist. Doesn’t shoo my hand away, but neither does he let me proceed.

“Why?” I frown. “Why can’t I touch you?”

“Because I say so.” He must see how little his reasoning convinces me, because he adds, “Because I’m an old man, and if I blow my load now, I’ll be out of commission for the next five business days.”

I laugh. “So?”

“So…give me a minute. Just rest, okay?”

“ ’Kay.” I burrow into his chest, hiking a leg over his. “But afterward…?”

“Afterward,” he says, tone inscrutable, and I don’t look up to scan his eyes for clues on how to interpret it, and…Well. That’s my mistake.

It takes me less than a minute to fall asleep. When I wake up, the sun is high in the sky, and Conor Harkness is gone.

Chapter 20

Present day

Taormina, Italy

Eli’s purpose in life appears to be keeping Rue happy, rested, and well fed, so I’m not surprised when his activity of choice for the night is a pasta-making lesson. The class is held at a traditional restaurant downtown, because, “No amount of coin or banknotes will convince Lucrezia to let anyone inside her kitchen, and I respect that,” Tamryn said.

It’s been a long day, not just because of the near-drowning. The heat beat us down. The salt and the sand and the sweat drained us. The offer to join the class is extended to everyone, but Minami and Sul decide to stay in with a beach-drunk Kaede, Tamryn says something about work calls, Paul has a project meeting that he really cannot miss, and Axel…Who knows where Axel is?

“He probably got lost on his way from the room to the bathroom,” Tisha tells me.

“I thought all rooms had en suites?”

“Exactly my point.”

The class is open to more than just our party. It requires working in pairs, assuming couplehood as the default state, as though the world and its activities are built for two. Discomfort in all social situations is the toll loveless singles must pay for not conforming to its demands.

“People in happy relationships love to rub our noses in it,” Nyota grumbles.

She and I, naturally, pair up. Also, just as naturally: Diego and Tisha, and Rue and Eli. Avery and Conor, too. So natural, the two of them don’t even seem to need a conversation on the topic. Conor takes a seat, and Avery plops down next to him. She has a clean bill of health from Dr. Cacciari—who, given the frequency of our calls, may be considering setting up a tent in the citrus grove.

I hope Eli’s tipping him well.

Making pasta, as it turns out, is not difficult. And yet, Nyota and I are terrible at it. So much so, the instructor makes an example of us in front of the class. Not once, not twice, and not even thrice.

“Can you believe this asshole?” Nyota whispers furiously. “Where is this Mayageddon I hear so much about? Shouldn’t she be turning green? Flipping the table?”

“Sadly, she only comes up during explicitly framed competitions.” I take a sip of my second negroni, working toward a nice buzz. “There has to be a trigger—tallied points, a race. That kind of stuff.”

“Okay, sir,” Nyota tells the instructor the fourth time he approaches, likely to show the other students hownotto create a nestof tagliatelle. “I realize that you may perceive us as easy targets, but this girl right here? She splits electrons and blasts them into the atmosphere.” I may have no idea what Nyota does at work, but that’s obviously mutual. “Iam able to list the world’s fifty top assets by market cap, including ETFs, crypto, and precious metals. Sostoptreating us like we’re the village fools, and show some respect.”

“I don’t understand.” The instructor’s English is serviceable, but his vocabulary appears to be mostly carbohydrate adjacent. “What you say?”

She leans toward him. “Step. Away. From my tagliatelle.”

He recoils. Nyota’s glare, clearly, is a universal language.

The worst part comes later: sitting outside, on the restaurant’s patio. As a piano man croons an Italian ballad, we get to eat the fruits of our labor.

“I didn’t think pasta could taste bad,” I tell Nyota, washing it all down with my third negroni.

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